The Catcher nd Being Caught

 

                I have been thinking, this week, about the way we, in community, catch people and are caught ourselves.

                A few years ago, a friend was climbing into a tree house, stepped on a rotten board and fell a long way. She was in the hospital for weeks and then home, immobile, for several months. When she was up and around again, she said that she felt like she fell out of a tree and right into the arms of her community, as everyone gathered around to help her heal. That image of arms reaching out to catch her—to catch all of us—has stuck with me.

                I have felt the same arms (literally, in some cases) reaching out to catch me in the past year. As soon as the Fiasco hit the news, people reached out. First, the city councilor whom I replaced—a deep voice on the line “What the hell’s going on? Do not give in and leave” followed by a flood of emails, phone calls, conversations…Where ever I went, someone was showing support, reaching out, asking questions, saying thank you. And it continues today. I have felt firm, supportive hand in the middle of my back for a year. I was caught.

                And so, I was talking with another friend about this—that, when we really need help, our community catches us. It was her first time, at 73, experiencing being caught; she has always been the one doing the catching. Showing up, moving chairs, asking how she can help and move things forward. Raising children. Taking care of a spouse. Saving the planet. Always catching, not being caught.  It was a little weird and uncomfortable to be on the other side, to be the one needing help. Maybe, we thought, we need to trade roles more often, to allow ourselves to be caught and supported in smaller crises as we move through life, so that we know, when a big one comes along, that we are not alone.

               

Fall Chores

 

               The seasons are shifting. We wake up before dawn these mornings; put the rabbit in by seven.  I wore my newly handknit wool socks this morning while reading the paper. Last week, we watched the golden  Harvest moon rise while the sun set over Mary’s Peak. The chores are also changing; along with the weekly housecleaning, we are snugging in for the long, damp winter.

                Last Saturday, we took on the wood pile. Almost exactly a year before, we had the two fruit trees—a cherry and a yellow plum— down. It was time. They had been planted when our house was built. One was growing Chicken of the Woods mushrooms, the other losing branches. I was worried about the power lines across the back yard in an ice storm (which happened this past winter). The arborist left us a pile of cut but not split logs which dried down all summer. We rented a wood splitter, asked a friend with a hitch to pull it over and back, and went to work. It was satisfying. By the end of the day, we had a huge pile of split wood, which I have spent the last week, between meetings and dinner, moving into the basement or into neatly stacked piles, as well as putting some of the truly funky pieces around the garden as habitat. Mark is sweeping the basement as the final touch to the project.

                While we were splitting wood, I was also processing tomatoes—cut them up and cook them down in the crockpot without a lid for hours to make a chunky sauce. Thirty five pints of sauce are now sitting on the basement shelves, along with 10 half pints of roasted tomatoes. I will harvest the basil and make pesto, then move the shorn plants into the greenhouse to see if they will sprout more leaves.  We dried figs and apples and plums earlier. This week, we will clean out the larder to hold the delicata and kobocha squashes I harvested when it was not my turn on the splitter. We will buy 70 pounds of onions and tuck them in there, along with seed potatoes and the fruitcakes in late November.

                This weekend, we are finishing up summer outside  the house work. Mark is sealing the dining room doors once more. I checked the caulking around the south side windows—and then went into the bathroom to hit the window there while I had the caulk out.  Mark has sifted out all of the compost bins and turned them all; I will spread the compost he has created in the beds that need the most love. Slowly, the summer beds are clearing out and the debris moves into the empty hoop.  Next weekend, the coop will perch on a bed once more and the chickens will be confined to a smaller space. They don’t seem to mind; the world will soon enough be rainy and dim.

                I will miss summer. The warm sunny days feel more precious each year, as we try to find time in the wilderness between mosquitoes hatching and wildfire haze. In the face of this constantly changing world, the rituals of fall, moving towards winter, are also precious.

The Equinox

 

We are moving into the Equinox, balancing light and dark, work and rest, inward and outward movements. This is what we are seeing now:

Morning fires in the garden.

The vines making a last long dash across the trellis.

Cedar Waxwings on the top third of the fig tree.

Smoky, dusty haze across the valley.

Cat sprawled on the bricks in the greenhouse, warming her old bones.

Twilight comes earlier every day—the bunny is not happy to go into the hutch sooner.

A basket of delicate squash.

Harvest moonlight and moon watch.

More people and more cars in car—schools are opening.

The drier runs all evening with figs and plums.

Crockpots of tomato sauce.

Soak in the warmth of the slanting sunlight now, knowing the clouds are coming soon.

 

 

 

Climate Debates

 

                On Thursday afternoon, the city council engaged in a robust discussion on whether or not to include the phrase “climate resilient” into a statement about Corvallis being a safe city. (It’s not in there yet.) You can watch the debate online: we began around 5:15, when I had a problem with the fact that, in all of our statements of priorities for the city, climate change was not mentioned.  Arguments went from: seven people are running on climate concerns for council this year and it is the key issue for most people under fifty to it’s not the city’s job to address climate change mitigation or adaptation at the community level. Such work is best left to the federal government (because that has worked so well for the last 40 years).  When we engage in these discussions, I hold my students close and try to convey the level of concern, anxiety, and panic our lack of action on climate change creates every day. I promised them to do my utmost to mitigate this loaming disaster, to leave them with not quite as large a mess to clean up when I am gone. Sometimes, that thread of the argument works.

                After the meeting, I went home to pack for a camping trip. Mark and I drove over the mountains to the Metolius River and Camp Sherman, where we had managed to reserve the best campsite on the river for the weekend. We have been visiting this magical place in the early fall for 20 odd years now. We have seen how some restoration work has taken hold and how other places need a little more love. We have watched cabins fall into disrepair and then be brought back to life with a new generation. We have been there in pouring rain, bright autumn sunshine and, this year, a smoky haze. As we stood o the bridge last night, watching a dipper dance on a branch in the cold, cold river, I wondered: why would you not do everything you can to preserve this beautiful, intricate, and damaged planet? It is our home. Why destroy our home?

               

                 

 

The Datsun

                 There’s been a small white hatchback cruising my neighborhood for several days. I caught a glimpse of it one day as it went down the street and, yesterday, it was parked, so I sidled up to it for a closer inspection. White. Hatchback. Datsun B210 GX.  In good shape.  No way…I thought. Still on the road. Only in Oregon.

                The only new car my mother ever owned was this exact Datsun model. She bought it when she was in the process of divorcing my father, which took several years. Before that, we were one truck family—a gold GMC work truck. If and when my mother was working, she had to be dropped off and picked up. When we went shopping, it was with my four cousins and my aunt, all in the station wagon. Until I was in high school, except for one summer with an old VW Bug that died quickly, she did not have her own transportation.  We lived a distance away from stores and family. It had to rankle, especially as she became the sole breadwinner for the family as the owner of her own small business and walked to work (a block but still…)  

                She bought this car because it was sporty and cutting edge, I am sure. When she was 18, she had a red and white convertible (used) and bought a matching dress and scarf to go with it. She was not a station wagon minded mom; she had an image to uphold. But it was also practical. At a time when gas prices were high and going higher, it got excellent gas mileage—much better than the truck. Japanese cars were on the rise for quality while American cars were on a downslide. Even in the snow and ice, that car drove.  The hatch allowed us to haul furniture to Durham when I went away to college a few years later. There was space. And it was hers.

                She kept that car for years. It had 200,000 miles on it, at least, all local driving. Over the years, the muffler was replaced regularly and she did regular maintenance, but no expensive engine repairs. There was a large, beige bondo spot on the driver’s side after an attempted home repair when the salt began to eat away at the frame. But it passed inspection every six months. It was paid for. And it was hers.

                I’ve been thinking about that car and my mother’s independence this week, during the Democratic convention, as the nominee talks about her own mother’s lessons and struggles bringing up two girls in a time when women’s roles were in flux and our mothers were coming into their own power, emotionally and economically.  I suspect there is a similar car in the Harris family story—one that kept on running, because it was hers.

 

Old Growth

 

                For the past few weeks, I have been thinking about the power of old friends. The ones who knew you years and years ago—and who still come around. When you were 18 and moving into the dorms for college. When you were six and did not recognize your best friend because her mom had given her a perm. When you had big dreams of starting a commune and changing the world. When you were just starting out in your job, or marriage, or parenthood…The people who knew you, not just in THIS time and place, but in the other times and places, the places you are, truly, from, the first land whose scent meant home. The voice that sounds like yours, late at night.  Family is part of this memory bank but they people we have kept close, even if we do not see them for long periods of time, hold us together.

*****

 

Mark and I were hiking the North Oregon coast headlands this week. There was smoke in the Cascades so we headed West and North to the Pacific. Along the way, the coast smelled like Home—ocean water mixed with wood fires and the scent of diesel from fishing boats. We climbed up hills into some of the most complex ecosystems of trees I have ever seen—Pacific Old Growth. There were some stumps from harvests with trees growing from the tops, roots reaching down around the stumps like wax candles on a breezy mantle. Other trees were clearly lined up from an old log, arches all facing the same way. Ferns grew out of downed trees and high in the branches of snags. Salal reached across the trails, tempting  Mark with berries. Shelf fungi are clearly having a Moment—they are growing everywhere, tangling into branches from hemlocks that get in the way.  All lean on one another, old memories leaving their physical marks on the newer growth. Like us, I thought, wandering down the trail in the golden green light of coastal late afternoon, heading home to the Ark for the night.

Potato Harvest-- why is it always hot?

 

                Growing up, I always thought of potato harvest as one on the last tasks of the year. After all, in Farmer Boy, the field is so cold that Almanzo lights a bonfire from the dried vines and roasts a potato or two in the coals to eat while he and his sister pick up the harvest. Tasha Tudor is wrapped in shawls when she hauls her baskets and shovel out to dig her harvest. These are the images I grew up with. I did not grow potatoes until I lived in the Willamette Valley. (True confession—the first time I saw potato plants in a garden, I did not know what they were. No one grew potatoes when I was a young gardener.)

                Why, then, am I always pulling my potatoes on hot, sunny afternoons? I plant them as early as I can. In the ideal schedule, the main crop should go in as the volunteers sprout up in the garden beds. Sometimes I have to wait because the seed potatoes—which come from Maine, usually—have not arrived. Sometimes, the ground is just too wet to be prepped and I have to wait. Even with a bit of delay, the roots are in by late April and the vines are dying down by late July. I’ll turn the water off in the bed so that the ground can dry down before harvest.  I set a cool morning time in my mind and wait for the perfect moment. Then…they come out in an afternoon.

                Usually, I have just finished lunch and I am reading in a shady spot.  I have a good book. I have drunk my second cup of tea. It’s cool and peaceful. Then, the potatoes call. Are they ready? The vines have all melted down to crispy vines and disappeared into the straw mulch. What’s underneath the mulch and soil? How well did they grow? How many pounds? What is the largest tuber? Which variety was the best producer? There is only one way to find out.

Without thinking, I gather paper bags for root cellar storage, my straw hat, and the wheelbarrow.  Maybe a water bottle. First, I pull off the vines and mulch and pile it into the wheelbarrow. A few potatoes tumble out of the bed as I work. Then, I push the dusty earth away from the nests of tubers, gathering the first layers up into the bags. Then, I run my hands deeper into the ground, working some of the mulch into the soil as I search for potatoes.  Finally, I break out the pitchfork, working carefully so that I don’t spear one. The sun beats down. The ground is dry and dusty. I am sweating before I know it. Hunched down around the beds, the slight breeze has disappeared.  It is hot. It is always hot.

When I have found 97% of the potatoes, I am ready to clean up the bed. Compost moves to the chicken run. Potatoes are weighed and tucked into milk crates under the stairs. If I am replanting, I lay the hoses down once more and plant. This year, the first bed has the direct seeded crops: beets and radishes, lettuce and greens. Tools away, I consider the harvest and drink several pint jars of water.  Why didn’t I wait until evening, when the sun is low and the air cooler? How did this become such a hot task, when all of the iconography of potato harvest is from late autumn? Why?

So far this year, we have brought in 14.5 pounds of Caribou russets, 21 pounds of Huckleberry, and about five pounds of volunteers. There are still compost bin taters and another full bed, drying down.